Chapter 2 - THE PICTURE FROM INSIDE MAGGIE’S APARTMENT
Beatrice did not scream.
That was what surprised Dante.
She simply stopped breathing.
On her phone screen, Maggie’s apartment appeared exactly as Beatrice remembered it from Wednesday night.
The cheap green sofa.
The lamp their mother had bought at a flea market.
The framed photograph of the two Gallagher sisters at Coney Island when Maggie was fourteen.
The picture had been taken from inside the living room.
Someone was already there.
Dante removed the phone from Beatrice’s shaking hand.
“When did you last speak to your sister?”
“Twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Call her.”
Beatrice did.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
Her face lost color.
“She always answers me.”
“Not always.”
“Yes.”
Dante looked at her.
Beatrice swallowed.
“She knows I worry.”
He was already calling someone.
“Marco.”
One word.
That was all.
The man on the other end apparently needed nothing else.
Dante gave Maggie’s address.
“Two teams. Quiet. No sirens unless necessary.”
Beatrice stepped toward the ballroom.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
She stopped.
“My sister is in that apartment.”
“And whoever sent this expects you to run there.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Beatrice stared at him.
Dante lowered his voice.
“They threatened Maggie to move you. Don’t make their job easy.”
“You think I’m supposed to stand here drinking champagne?”
“No.”
He handed her the accounting folder.
“You’re going to tell me who can access these numbers.”
That almost made her laugh.
“My sister could be tied to a chair somewhere.”
“And if she is, I have people entering the building now.”
“Your people.”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to trust them?”
“No.”
That answer stopped her.
Dante continued.
“I expect you to decide based on evidence. Right now, the evidence says the person threatening Maggie wants you emotional enough to stop thinking.”
Beatrice looked at the black folder.
Numbers.
That was the one language panic had never taken from her.
She opened it.
“Wilkes & Hart has seven people with direct write access to the Moretti account.”
“Names.”
“Charles. Me. Senior partner Malcolm Hart. Controller David Klein. Two systems administrators. And Victoria.”
“Victoria works in client relations.”
“She requested expanded access six months ago.”
“Why?”
Beatrice’s eyes hardened.
“She said she needed it for client reporting.”
“Did that make sense?”
“No.”
“And you approved it?”
“I don’t have authority to approve access.”
“Who does?”
“Charles.”
Dante looked toward the ballroom.
Charles Wilkes had disappeared.
That was answer enough for now.
Beatrice turned pages.
“The fraudulent adjustments began seven months ago.”
“When did Victoria get access?”
“Eight months ago.”
Dante’s mouth became a hard line.
“Convenient.”
“My department flagged her access request.”
“You did?”
“I asked why client relations needed posting permissions.”
“And?”
“Charles overruled me.”
Dante studied her.
“Why are you still working there?”
Because rent existed.
Because Maggie was finishing nursing school.
Because Beatrice’s mother had expensive heart medication.
Because being thirty-two did not magically make courage affordable.
She answered only,
“Life.”
Dante seemed to understand anyway.
His phone rang.
Beatrice stared at his face while he listened.
Nothing changed.
That frightened her.
“What?”
He ended the call.
“Maggie isn’t in the apartment.”
Beatrice’s knees nearly gave out.
Dante caught her elbow.
“She also isn’t there injured.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“There was no forced entry.”
“Then where is she?”
“They’re checking.”
Beatrice grabbed her phone.
A new message arrived.
THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.
Attached was another photograph.
Maggie standing beside a subway entrance.
Alive.
Apparently unaware she was being photographed.
Beatrice’s chest hurt.
“That was taken tonight.”
Dante looked closely.
“Times Square.”
“How do you know?”
“Reflection.”
She zoomed in.
A Broadway advertisement reflected in a store window.
“You’re right.”
“Maggie left her apartment.”
“She told me she was staying home.”
“Why?”
Beatrice frowned.
“She had an exam today. She said she was exhausted.”
Dante touched his earpiece.
“Find her phone.”
One of his men answered through the device.
Beatrice stared.
“You can track people like that?”
Dante looked at her.
“If they’ve agreed to security services.”
“My sister hasn’t.”
“Then no.”
Something about the answer reassured her.
Less than she expected.
More than she wanted.
The ballroom doors opened.
Marco Moretti—Dante’s cousin and security chief—entered quickly.
“Charles is still in the building.”
Dante turned.
“Where?”
“Forty-fourth floor.”
“That floor is closed.”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice looked up.
The hotel’s forty-fourth floor housed private conference suites used by Wilkes & Hart during major client events.
“Victoria?”
“Security camera shows her going up twelve minutes ago.”
Beatrice closed the folder.
“I’m coming.”
Dante looked at her.
“This is not a field trip.”
“It’s my firm.”
“It may also be a trap.”
“And those are my numbers.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Respect.
“Stay behind me.”
“I don’t take instructions well.”
“You spent ten minutes saying ‘yes, sir’ to a man who insulted you.”
The words struck too close.
Beatrice’s face hardened.
Dante immediately understood.
“That came out wrong.”
“No. It came out accurate.”
She lifted her chin.
“But I’m done with that.”
For the first time that night, Dante smiled fully.
“Good.”
They took the private elevator.
Marco rode with them.
Two guards followed in another car.
The forty-fourth floor was almost dark.
Only emergency lights glowed along the corridor.
Beatrice knew Suite 4408.
Charles used it for private meetings with high-value clients.
The door stood slightly open.
Dante motioned for Beatrice to remain back.
He entered first.
Nobody.
A laptop sat open on the table.
Beside it lay a glass of whiskey.
Still cold.
Beatrice approached the computer.
Her employee login was displayed on the screen.
She froze.
“That’s my account.”
Dante leaned closer.
The screen showed a transfer authorization.
$1,200,000.
Moretti Hospitality Holdings.
Destination: Carrington Consulting Group.
Authorization: BEATRICE GALLAGHER.
“That wasn’t me.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep looking like you expect me not to.”
Beatrice stared at the screen.
Then noticed something.
“Wait.”
She moved closer.
“This transfer hasn’t gone through.”
“How can you tell?”
“Timestamp.”
She pointed.
“Scheduled for 11:55 tonight.”
Dante checked his watch.
10:12.
“They’re trying to create evidence after threatening you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Beatrice looked toward the open folder.
“To make me look like the thief.”
A soft noise came from the adjoining room.
Marco raised his weapon.
Dante moved in front of Beatrice.
The door opened.
Victoria Lane stumbled out.
Her silver gown was torn at the shoulder.
Blood ran from her lip.
“Help me.”
Beatrice stared.
Victoria collapsed.
Dante caught her before she hit the floor.
Marco searched the second room.
Empty.
Victoria’s hands shook.
“Charles…”
Beatrice crouched.
“What did he do?”
Victoria looked directly at her.
“He knows you found it.”
“Found what?”
“The money.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“We know about the $4.8 million.”
Victoria shook her head.
“No.”
Fear filled her eyes.
“That’s not the money.”
Beatrice felt cold.
“What are you talking about?”
Victoria looked toward the laptop.
“The $4.8 million is only what they needed you to notice.”
Silence.
Dante knelt.
“Who is they?”
Victoria began crying.
Before she could answer, Beatrice’s phone rang.
Maggie.
Beatrice answered instantly.
“Maggie?”
“Bea?”
Her sister sounded frightened.
“Where are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Where?”
“At Bellevue.”
Beatrice’s heart stopped.
“Why are you at Bellevue?”
“There was an accident.”
“What accident?”
Maggie began crying.
“A man pushed me onto the subway platform.”
Beatrice gripped the table.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Someone pulled me back.”
Dante’s face changed.
This had escalated beyond intimidation.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see the man?”
“No.”
Maggie inhaled shakily.
“But, Bea…”
“What?”
“He said something before he pushed me.”
Beatrice closed her eyes.
“What did he say?”
Maggie whispered,
“He said your sister should have deleted the file.”
The entire room became silent.
Victoria looked at Dante.
Then Beatrice.
And finally said what she had been trying to say.
“The $4.8 million isn’t theft.”
May you like
Her voice dropped.
“It’s hush money.”
